That’s when I made a decision. “I’m going to tell him,” I whispered to Jamie.
“Who? What are you telling?” she asked, confused.
“Mike. As soon as he comes out here I’m going to tell him that I’m an idiot.”
She laughed despite the situation and replied, “Um, I think he knows that. Anything new he doesn’t know?”
“I’m an idiot because he was right the whole time. It’s him. It’s always been him.”
“What do you mean?” she asked. “Are you talking about you two getting together? Everyone’s known that except you, Philip.” She came closer and put her arm around me. “Mike told me last year about the two of you spending all those lifetimes together, but I’m sure he’ll be happy to hear it from you. It looks like you’re about to get your chance. Here they come.” Mike and Carl emerged from the darkness inside the bar. When they’d joined us on the darkened patio, she blurted out “Hi Carl! We’re in big trouble!”
“Of course you are,” Carl said, with exasperation in his voice. “You went to a show at the very theater where you know the man—who actually wants to kill you—works!”
“It was your idea in the first place,” I reminded him. “Remember, Carl?” I replied, pretty exasperated myself.
“Yes, well, I didn’t know that the man worked there at the time, did I!” Carl defended himself “Did he follow you? Is he coming here?”
“We don’t know,” Mike answered him. “We don’t think so. Phil thinks he knows where we’re staying, though.”
“What?” Carl was surprised. “How could he possibly know that?”
“I don’t know,” I said, my voice rising defensively. “Maybe he followed us? He knows that we found him here and he knows you’ve been helping us. He also knows that you went with my folks to Brooklyn to find him and that we went to the theater asking questions. So, um,” I said, the defensiveness falling away, “Um, now he wants to kill you, too. I’m so sorry, Carl. I didn’t mean for this to happen.” Just as Carl was about to say something, probably about not wanting to be murdered in cold blood, I interrupted him.
“Oh no,” I said, dread creeping into my voice. “We have to get out of here—now. I’m getting that weird itchy feeling that means I have to move. It’ll be bad if we stay here. Come on, let's go.” I turned around and began climbing the steps up to the sidewalk level but the others didn’t follow me. “Please, please come on!” I urged them. “We have to go now!” That one extra push seemed to break their feet free of the paving stones and get them moving after me.
As we headed out onto the sidewalk, Jamie grabbed Carl’s elbow and slowed down so that Mike and I pulled ahead of them.
“I have something to tell you,” I said quietly to Mike.
“Okay, but can it wait ‘til later?” he replied.
“No, please, I—Mike, you need to know that you were right. I have never felt so much purpose as I have in the last few days. This is what I’m meant to do—and I’m meant to do it with you, Mike, not because of some long-dead memories that we share but because it feels right in the here and now.” I paused to catch my breath, then said emphatically, “You. I choose you. I, Philip, son of George and Lydia, choose you, Mike, son of Rocky and Rose, to spend what time I am given having adventures with you—and more.” I smiled and looked over at him but I couldn’t see his face clearly in the dark. I finished my confession with, “That’s what I choose—I’m sorry it took me so long—I’m slow sometimes.”
“Well, that’s good,” he replied. “Really good. And, me too— I mean, that’s what I choose, too: I choose you. And, hey! Don’t worry about being slow. My mother says that everything happens in its own right time. This is our time, Philip. Right now.” I glanced over and could see his eyes this time. He was looking so lovingly at me and it felt so good. Then he went on, “This is where we’re supposed to be and what we’re supposed to be doing. So, let's get this done and then we can have those adventures.”
I grabbed his arm then and stopped him from walking. I wrapped my arms around him and reached my face up to kiss him. It was late. It was dark. There weren’t many people around besides Carl and Jamie, who were just catching up to us. My first attempt at a kiss landed somewhere on his chin, so I placed my hand on the back of his head and tilted his face down toward mine. The warmth of that kiss flooded my body and felt almost like slipping beneath the water of a warm bath. The kiss in the produce packing plant had been electric and exciting, this one was different—it was soft and welcoming and fit just right. Our bodies pressed together in the warm, enveloping embrace of home. Home, I thought. I’d found home—and safety—and trust—and acceptance. Oh, and love. I could have stayed in that warm embrace forever.
We broke off when Carl cleared his throat.
“Ah-hem, well! Ansel and Ingmar would never have done that on 34th Street,” he observed—probably a little jealously. “Anyway, shouldn’t we be going?”
We started walking again, picking up the pace so we could get back to the hotel as soon as possible. We were standing in front of Madison Square Garden, waiting for a break in traffic to cross the street, when my stomach flipped in the disturbing way to which I’d recently become accustomed. I could see our hotel across the street but without a facade—just boards and scaffolding, a building half finished. Then, it was like time sped forward and there were columns on the front. Fast forward again and, finally, the building was finished, soaring into the sky. The earlier, half-completed facade was now covered in marble and brick. Vincent was here and he saw this.
I suddenly knew that it was the largest hotel in the world when it was first built and Vincent worked there during its construction. The matron at the public toilet near the library, the one he’d run errands for, had pulled some political strings and gotten him a job writing messages for the construction company and carrying them to the different foremen on the site. He couldn’t use his left hand but he wrote well with his right hand, which was a useful skill to have in the days before walkie-talkies. Vincent had covered every step of the hotel delivering messages. If Vincent knew every passage and hallway in this hotel, then that meant I knew them, too. As we crossed the street, I told them what I’d just seen.
“Hey, you guys, I just realized that Vincent worked here at the hotel when it was originally constructed. So, I pretty much know everything about this building—every door, every closet, everything...” As I was saying it, I realized that it was all true. If Kominsky caught up with us here, if he followed us into the hotel, I could lead him through a long, frustrating chase through the twists and turns of this old building. And then I panicked. Why had the idea of being chased through this old-timey hotel occurred to me? And how does that get Kominsky arrested and off of our backs?
CHAPTER TWENTY
As I puzzled over my thoughts and the vision I’d had, fate stepped in and decided for me. Just as we were entering the front doors between the great pillars that Vincent had watched them erect, I saw Alfred Kominsky, standing in the lobby, smiling at us.
“Well, if it isn’t the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew,” he said loudly from about fifteen feet away. “Oh, and throw in one old queen for good measure!” he laughed, although it sounded more like a high-pitched bark.
“We told them,” I managed to say, although it was probably too quiet for him to hear because he raised his eyebrows at me. “We told the police!” I managed to speak louder this time. “We told them about you and Andy and about you and Mary Louise.” He raised his eyebrows at me again but I couldn’t tell if he was confused or hard of hearing. “Mary Louise Keller? 1972? Bucks County? Does any of that ring a bell?” I blurted out, each question louder than the one before. Finally, he dropped his eyebrows and he mouthed the word “Oh.” He understood. I added more confidently this time, “I think it’s over for you, Kominsky, so you have no more business with us.”
I think I was aware of it before he even knew what he was doing: the animal noise I’d heard back in the alley
beside the theater—I heard here, now, in our hotel lobby and it made my blood run cold. I also knew he was going to snap—just before he actually snapped.
“Run!” I shouted as I darted past Kominsky and ran further into the long hotel lobby. He let loose a roar of anger like some furious half-man, half-beast. The huge lobby had originally featured soaring, fluted columns and a vaulted, stained-glass ceiling high overhead. The renovation had enclosed the columns in boxes of marble and dropped the ceiling. I could see it all like a double exposed slideshow in my head as I ran, dodging the surprised guests. I ducked behind one of the marble-encased pillars and peered around it to see if he had followed me. I couldn’t see him or any of my friends and no one in the lobby seemed at all disturbed as far as I could tell. What is going on? I wondered. I decided to circle back cautiously to see what was happening. I paid close attention to everyone and every movement as I made my way back toward the front part of the lobby. I spotted Jamie holding onto Mike and pulling him behind a marble pillar while Kominsky was walking Carl out the door—did he have a gun?
“No!” I shouted. Carl stopped abruptly and Kominsky bumped into him from behind then spun around to face me. He gave me a look of intense hatred, a look I’d never seen anyone give another person. It shocked me into action.
“That man is a murderer!” I yelled. “He’s a kidnapper and a murderer! Someone call the police now because he is attempting to take this man and kill him!” Then I shouted, “Carl! Get away from him! Now!” Carl managed to skitter away from Kominsky, who had been momentarily distracted by my performance. People were definitely paying attention now, looking nervously back and forth between me and Kominsky.
“Hey kid, you watch too many movies,” Alfred Kominsky said, and laughed his reedy laugh as he casually headed for the revolving door.
“I think we should listen to what he has to say,” Carl urged, stepping forward and placing his foot in front of the revolving door to prevent it from turning.
“That’s right, Al, I’ve got a lot more to say.” I said. Kominsky stopped, turned, and faced me, with a resigned look on his face now. “What about Katrina Williams and her husband Roger, back in 1969 in Chicago? Does the name Ingmar ring a bell? He was in D.C. in ‘60? And then there’s Ansel in ‘62, also in D.C. Did that one slip your mind? I don’t really remember you from back then, but I’m pretty sure it was you. The list goes on and on, isn’t that right, Mike?”
The entire time I was talking, I didn’t break eye contact with Kominsky, but I did gesture for Mike to come out from hiding. “Has someone called the police yet?” I asked him.
“I think so,” Mike said as he came and stood next to me.
“Carl!” I warned, “He’s got a knife, step back!” I knew what Kominsky was going to do right before he reached into his baggy pants and pulled out what looked like a very sharp hunting knife. Suddenly, it was chaos in the lobby! People began screaming and running in every direction, some toward the exits, some toward the elevator and wherever else they might be able to hide. Mike grabbed my hand and Carl stepped away from the revolving door. Only the Hunter and I remained motionless like time had somehow stopped. His hate-filled eyes trained onto mine and sent a chill up my spine forcing me to move. I began stepping backwards slowly, slowly alongside Mike. Kominsky matched us moving forward step-by-step, the knife in his hand flashing in the light.
“Alright, alright folks.” A policeman burst into the lobby behind him, his hand on his gun. “What seems to be the problem here?” he yelled, scanning the large room. Kominsky quickly concealed the knife so that the cop couldn’t see it and darted towards us. Still holding hands, Mike and I turned and ran down the length of the lobby toward the opposite end. We were much younger than he was and, when we reached the end of the enormous room, we had put a fair amount of distance between our attacker and us. I was grateful that I knew just which door to take—the one that led to a service hallway, which accessed much of the hotel.
We’d gone through the door and were running down the hall when we heard it pulled open again and then slam shut behind us. We were still outdistancing him as I led us into the Palm Room, which had only changed for the worse since Vincent had last seen it. We paused until we were sure he was still following us before I took us through what was once the kitchen for the hotel and out into the main dining room. A truly massive space, I knew suddenly that this was where we would make our stand. There were plenty of hiding places. Mike and I jumped up onto one of the terraces that ran the length of the room and concealed ourselves behind some drapery. Then, trying not to make any noise, we waited for the Hunter.
And waited. All was quiet. And we waited. He didn’t show.
“We heard him—right behind us,” Mike whispered. “Didn’t we?”
“I thought so,” I replied. “Let’s just wait here. He’s coming. I know it.” We stood as still as possible in the cavernous main dining room, breathing deeply in an attempt to achieve some kind of calm before Kominsky’s arrival.
It’s December 21st, 1918, the final day of construction of the Hotel Pennsylvania. Everything is nearly completed and the hotel is scheduled to open in three weeks. Vincent is standing as still as possible in the cavernous main dining room in an attempt to achieve some kind of calm before a party hosted by the builders for the managers of the hotel. He intends to eat as much as he can hold at this party because the end of this job also means the end of any sort of income. He is going to miss a steady paycheck dearly and he isn’t sure if he will be able to afford the rented room he’d taken after he cashed his first paycheck as a messenger, six months earlier.
Vincent feels pretty good about his time working for a big construction company. Using his gifts—the ones you can’t list on a job application—to prevent several accidents at the work site by adding a line here and there to his messages turned out to be an easy and effective way to keep people safe. Even though he's enjoyed his job these last few months, the pain of loss never leaves him. Living without his brother, Virgil, seems so pointless that he’s lost the fight to go on. It all seems like such a meaningless struggle...
Vincent dies a few years later, after barely eking out an existence, sleeping rough in the park on a clear night that turns into a late winter snow storm.
To our surprise, the door directly behind us on the terrace began to open slowly. Unwilling to give up the advantage, I grabbed the door handle and pulled hard. Mike was just standing there when Kominsky burst in and came rushing toward him off balance and stumbling. Mike grabbed him behind the neck and shoved him forward, which caused him to fall headlong down the few steps and onto the polished floor of the dining room. When he landed on his face and shoulder, we heard a muffled crunching sound. He slid quite a distance before coming to a stop in a crumpled heap. Still up on the terrace, Mike and I hesitated, we weren’t sure if we should get out of there or wait to see if the Hunter was still alive.
Then he moved.
Kominski groaned and rolled slowly onto his side. He reached over with his left hand and grabbed his limp and useless right arm, pulling it close as he continued to heave himself up onto his knees. He finally managed to stand, although he was moaning and clearly in pain. We were paralyzed, held in place by a mixture of fear and concern. I could turn my head and look at Mike but I couldn’t seem to get my feet moving.
“I can’t believe I didn’t kill you back at the packing plant,” Kominsky said to me between wheezing moans.
“I guess I’m indestructible this time around,” I answered.
“You’ll have to go through me first, anyway,” Mike shot back at him while standing next to me protectively.
He has a gun and he wants to kill us.
This knowledge came to me with horrible clarity. Everything that happened after that one clear thought happened pretty much at the same time.
I pushed Mike to the left and then ducked to the right behind the drapery we’d hidden behind before. At that moment, the main doors to the dining room
flew open and Carl and Jamie rushed in followed by my frantic parents. The Hunter turned toward the new arrivals coming through the doors, reached to the back of his waist, and withdrew the pistol he’d had there all along. I regained my balance, left my pointless hiding spot behind, and rushed down the stairs toward Kominsky. He whirled around to face me and swung the gun in my direction. All of sudden, Mike was there, shoulder butting me, and I went flying off to the right just as the gun fired and Mike went down. The explosion from the gun seemed to switch everything to slow motion, as I reversed direction and scrambled over to Mike hoping to protect his body with mine.
There was a very neat hole just above Mike’s right eyebrow with a single drop of blood oozing out. He was clearly dead. I felt a kind of grinding, relentless pain I have felt so many times before. Mike was gone. Ingmar was gone. Virgil was gone. This was it—the pain of being left behind that I couldn’t imagine before. Being shot in the chest never hurt like this roaring tornado of loss which filled my head. This was pain that wrenched the soul, pain of the deepest part of me being ripped away until I was empty inside.
I finally understood Ansel’s loss, living with emptiness for two full years after Kominsky had killed Ingmar. I could feel Vincent’s pain as he wandered around New York City after Virgil had been killed in the fire.
Lifetimes of sadness and anger and loneliness became clear to me in an instant and I wanted revenge. Everything turned white as I lunged. My dad was almost on Kominsky when I rushed him, yelling my own animal roar, my arms outstretched toward his neck. I had no baseball bat to throw this time, just my rage and my loss and I intended to kill the man who had murdered so many other innocent people, including people I had loved. As my hands closed around his throat and my momentum sent him hurtling backward toward the floor, another shot rang out. This one was more muffled than the last one because the muzzle of the gun was pressed directly against my chest.
DEAD AT SIXTEEN (THE KNOWERS Book 1) Page 17